Save It
by SelenaLena
Summary: John Watson isn't sure if he's gone mad or if he's being haunted. Either way, he does't know if he can take it much longer. Rated for attempted suicide.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I'm not Moffat or Gatiss, although by the end of this chapter, you may be as angry at me as you are them.**

**Erm...I don't recommend reading this if you haven't seen the last episode of Series 2. I know, I know. Just about everyone has seen it. But I'm trying to be cautious here.**

**Also! This wasn't written as Johnlock, but if you want to tilt your head, squint, and fill in some of your own blanks, that's fine by me. Just don't get upset when I don't write anything directly Johnlock. (They're friends in my book, that's all.)**

**Erm...enjoy might not be the right word here, but read on and please don't kill me. I'm going to hide behind something sturdy.**

* * *

It was strange, hanging around 221B without Sherlock. Hell, if it hadn't been for him, John would never have known the place existed. Fortunately, he didn't have to hang about much longer. Within a couple of days, 221B would be empty. John didn't know how Mrs Hudson could bear to stay in her own flat, with this one only a flight of stairs away.

Not after what happened.

It started a few weeks after "The Fall." He'd finally had to go back to work, and every morning when John would leave 221B, he would swear he heard a violin playing very faintly, as if one of Mrs Turner's boys was playing the haunting tune.

This, of course, was ridiculous. He'd never heard anyone but Sh- but his own flatmate play the violin like that. All sad and high and sweet. "It's wishful thinking, you idiot," John had muttered to himself the first time. And the second. And the third, and the fourth...

There came a point where he couldn't deny it anymore: This flat was literally driving him mad. He had to move. So he'd started flat-hunting. And the oddities had become odder and more frequent.

* * *

The next thing to fall prey to John's "overactive imagination" and "wishful thinking" was the Other Chair. Every time John would walk by it, a shiver ran up and down his spine, and the muscles there would twitch occasionally for hours afterwards. People had started asking if he was getting a bad back.  
This, of course, was ridiculous. If he hadn't had a bad back after the war, or running all over London on cases, then now was certainly an unlikely time to develop one. "You've just got a draft, and you're making it out to be more than it is," John chided himself for weeks.

After that, things had really gone downhill.

"John? John," Mrs Hudson knocked on the door frame. "There's someone here to look at the flat. Do you want to show him around or shall I?"

"I've got it, Mrs Hudson, I'll let you get on with your day." Mrs Hudson showed the man in and disappeared back into her own flat. "If you do decide you like the flat, the first thing she'll tell you is 'I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,'" John joked. The other man laughed. "John Watson." The ex-army doctor put out his hand.

"Tobias Gregson." He shook it. "Mrs Hudson was telling me about your flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. I'm so sorry, that must have been awful."  
"Yes, yes it was. This old flat's getting a little hard for me to stay in, you understand, but nothing's wrong with it, I assure you." John rushed to get that out before he started babbling and hit his own nerve.

Gregson chuckled. "Of course. I'm sure it's completely sound."

"Right. Okay. Erm, I imagine you'd like to see the rest of it, yeah?" The two men wandered further into the flat, John explaining things and pointing out some of the best features.

* * *

Two weeks later, John Hamish Watson was no longer a resident of 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was no longer his landlady, and the happenings stopped. If it was Sherlock's ghost, as John had begun to believe it was, then it was haunting 221B, not him. Things were fine now.

For a while.

He'd been on his way out the door to get milk when his phone rang. "Hello?"

_John, it's Tobias Gregson. I'm calling about that window facing the street on the far left. It seems to be stuck. I've been trying to get it open for several days now and it just won't budge. Mrs Hudson says she doesn't know anything about it, but I figured I'd call and see if it had ever done this to you._

John listened carefully right up until when Gregson said "on the far left." Those words froze him, one foot on the street and one still inside, hand on the knob and body turned to pull the door closed. "The...the left one? Erm...yes, I think it did give me a little trouble a time or two," he lied, hoping his words wouldn't slur and give him away. "There was this trick to it, but it's a bit difficult to explain on the phone. I could come give you a hand if you like."

_Sure, that'd be fine._

"I'm actually on my out right now, I could pop by now if that suits you."

_You're sure it's no trouble?_

"No trouble at all. Baker Street is on my way." _If I take a detour, _John amended to himself.

* * *

221B hadn't changed as much as he'd rather hoped it would. It was different, certainly, but Gregson must have decided that he like the layout. At least the bullet holes were patched up and the smiley face was gone.

And the chair. Gregson had had the sense to move it out, too.

"So, it's this window, over here?"

"Yeah."

"This one always was a problem. Hope I haven't forgotten how to handle it." John laughed to hide his edginess. He fiddled with the frame for a moment, before leaning into it and bullying it up. Gregson was right, it _was_ hard to open now.

This had always been Sherlock's window. His music stand had always sat right where John's feet were now, and the instrument was never far away.  
"There we are. You've got to shake the frame and throw your weight into it when it starts to move."

"Thanks. Can I get you a cup of tea or something? Sit down, you might as well stay awhile since you're here."

"That would be lovely, thank you."

The conversation had just gotten past the formalities when there was a massive _slam _that shook the flat and nearly made John jump out of his skin.

"What the he-? -Oh, sorry," he apologized, realizing that he probably ought not curse in Tobias' flat.

"No, you're fine. What was that?"

They looked around, both heads spinning.

"Tobias...the window."

The stuck window had caused the noise. "Now what caused that, I wonder?" Tobias stood and crossed to the window, opening it just as John has showed him. It stuck going up again, just as it should, and Tobias returned to his seat.  
_Slam._

The window fell again, and Tobias got up to fix it again.

_Slam._

Three more times they went through this, until John just couldn't take it any more. "Sherlock!" His voice had gained a raw edge, and to Tobias Gregson, his new friend had gone utterly mad. "Sherlock, stop this! I know you're upset that I moved out and that Tobias here moved in, but you've got to get over this! You're dead now, you need to move on! Stop haunting everyone and get on with your...em, death..." John trailed off, realizing how ridiculous that bit sounded. His voice lowered and almost close to normal, he continued. "Sherlock, you were and will always be my best friend, but worrying about me or wanting to stay and make sure I'm okay can't keep you here. You don't belong here with us anymore. Now that doesn't mean I wouldn't trade the world to get you back, but..." His voice gave out on him, and the next words were broken and hoarse "But you can't come back."

_Maybe I can find you though._

"I should go. Thanks for the tea, Tobias."

"John, do you want me to walk with you? I really don't think being alone is the best thing for you right now." John had to give him props for being level headed.

"No, thank you. I...I'll be alright."

"Okay... Give me a call if you need anything."

"Thank you, Tobias. Sh- Sherlock's ghost shouldn't give you any more trouble." John left as quickly as he dared.

* * *

A phone call came in to Scotland Yard.

"I don't know how we can have let this carry on for so long."

"I don't have an answer for that."

"I do; we can't. Not any more."

"What?"

"This ends, right now. I'm not letting it go on for another minute."

The line went dead.

* * *

John arrived home exhausted, mentally and physically, a few days after his outburst in 221B. For days after, Sherlock's ghost hadn't left him alone; more slamming windows and doors, nearly endless violin, cold spots all over London, voices in his head, and the feeling of unseen eyes burning holes into the back of John's head.

He climbed the stairs to his flat slowly, like the man he'd been before he'd met the consulting detective. He stopped once he was in the door, picking something up off of the small table in the kitchen and dragging a chair with him.

The chair went to the direct center of the nearly empty flat, and in John's hands the long blue scarf twisted into a noose. Finding something to anchor it to would be an issue, but John easily solved that problem with a large meat hook scavenged from one of Sherlock's cases, bent a bit and beaten into the ceiling. One end of the scarf went on the hook. The other went around John's neck, and he prepared to step off the chair.

There was a knock at the door. John ignored it. Probably someone from the hospital, wondering why he'd stopped coming into work.

The knocking grew persistent. "John, open the door." Sherlock's voice, in his head again. Damn ghost couldn't even let him die in peace. Another voice in his head, not Sherlock's, whispered something about the irony of both of the residents of 221B meeting their end with a fall. _Shut up, _John shouted to both voices.

The knock at the door turned into a hammering. John ignored it.

_Crash._ The distinct sound of a door buckling with a well-placed kick. "John?"

John Watson stepped off the chair.

* * *

**Please don't kill me. There's at least one more chapter coming, I promise. I'm not entirely sure where this is going. Oh! Also, I took a little...license with the whole scarf bit. Erm. Sorry if I'm wrong.**

**Let me know what you think. I'll get the second chapter as soon as I work out the bugs.**

**-Lena**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wasn't entirely surprised by the call from Lestrade. The DI had been talking to Mycroft, and had decided for himself that it was time for the consulting detective to come back from the dead. Not many people had Sherlock's mobile number these days, but Lestrade had obviously managed to drag the information out of someone.

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, you arse."

"Lestrade. Who gave you this number?"

"Not important," the DI growled at him. "You need to come home. _Now._"

"You know why I can't do that."

"No, I know why you say you can't. But you and I know none of those excuses are anything but. Come back."

Being ordered around by Lestrade was new. Sherlock wondered where he'd got the guts to argue with him. "Why should I?"

"John."

"He could still be killed if I return too soon."

"He'll definitely be killed if you don't."

That caught Sherlock's attention. "Who?"

"John."

"Don't be an idiot, I know that already. Who's going to kill him?"

"That's what I'm saying, he's going to kill himself. He-"

Sherlock cut him off. "Suicide? That doesn't sound like John."

"At the moment, _John_ doesn't sound like John. He's been convinced for a few weeks now that your ghost is haunting him. Tobias Gregson moved into 221B. He's just joined my team at Scotland Yard. I recommended Baker Street to him since John was moving out."

"Get to the point, Inspector."

"John was at 221 fixing a stuck window for Gregson and went off about how you need to move on, being dead and all. Gregson told me to get someone to keep an eye on him. John's only getting worse, Sherlock. How illogical is suicide sounding now?"

Silence on Sherlock's end.

"Sherlock?"

"What's his address?"

* * *

Sherlock kicked the door down. It was sturdy, but one good kick took care of it. He always had been good with doors. "John?" The sound of a chair falling over issued from deeper withing the flat. "John!" Towards the commotion, trying to deduce what he'd be hanging himself with. John wasn't the type to keep rope around the flat, nor was he the type to go buy rope just to kill himself. A hurried trip through his memory; what did he have, what would he have kept-

"The scarf."

Sherlock grabbed a knife from the kitchen and rushed in to find John swinging from the ceiling, sure enough hanging himself with Sherlock's old scarf. He was slowly strangling, and at the moment didn't seem surprised to see his former flatmate standing there with a knife. Perhaps he had gone mad. Sherlock worked at the scarf with the knife (which was not as sharp as it should have been- a blessing or a curse?), and within a few moments, John hit the floor, gasping for breath. He stayed there a few moments, desperately trying to pull air into his starved lungs, which obviously disagreed with this whole business. After a few moments, he finally managed to cough out some words. Sherlock was expecting something angry and condemning, but what John finally did say surprised even his superior mind. "Can't- can't you leave me a- alone? All- all I wanted to do was get out, and I... can't even stop a ghost from saving my damn life." The ex-army doctor tried to stand, but fell, blacking out. Sherlock rolled his eyes and hauled John to his feet, dragging his unconscious friend(?) out to his chair and pulling one up for himself.

* * *

It took John a few hours to wake up, but when he did, the look on his face clearly said that he wanted to punch something for waking him up. Sherlock's glance flicked over to him for just a moment, then returned to the case file he'd become engrossed in. To John, everything looked almost normal. But...this wasn't 221B.

"God, my head."

"Not surprising you have a headache. Here, tea." John took the mug Sherlock offered him, but nearly choked at the detective's next words. "Trying to hang yourself with my old scarf? How...sentimental."

John coughed and spluttered. "What?"

"You were an army doctor. I'd have thought you could come up with something more...original."

"I just tried to commit suicide...and you're worried about _sentiment?_"

"Mostly I'm concerned at the amount you're displaying. Killing yourself over your "dead" flatmate, _with his old scarf, _is rather unlike you John." Sherlock stood to go fetch another file. Before he'd make it a few steps, he hit the floor, cheekbone smarting. John sank down next to him, his sudden burst of energy spent. "I thought we were past this, John," he chided a little less sternly than he intended, sitting upright with one hand on what would surely become a bruise.

"_You were dead on a slab._ There was blood all over the street. _You had no bloody pulse, _I checked."

"Yes, about that."

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock." John worked to get his feet under him, in an attempt to stand.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Save it." He struggled to his feet and staggered off into his bedroom.

* * *

Sherlock stayed where he was, a little unsure of what to do next, which was unusual, to say the least. How were you supposed to act around a friend who had just tried to kill himself when you were supposed to be dead as well?

John didn't seem to want to talk, and Sherlock couldn't blame him. That didn't change the fact that even Sherlock felt uncomfortable allowing John to stalk off with barely a word after what could only be described as a traumatic event. They _were_ friends, after all, regardless of what Sherlock might say.

The consulting detective hesitated a moment, still more than a little unsure about the best course of action here, then stood. He gathered the scattered papers back into their folder, tied on his scarf (a replacement from after he left, of course), and quit the flat, shrugging his coat on.

He needed to have a few words with Molly.

* * *

**Ugh, this is so short. I'm sorry about that, but I've been horrendously busy since I posted the first chapter. Huzzah. Whatever.** **Hopefully, the next chapter will be longer, to repay you all for this long wait and what I am regrettably sure will be another long-ish one. I apologize in advance.**

**In my defense, I have no idea where this story is going until I get there. "Hold tight and pretend it's a plan."**

**Last thing before I go, I'd like to thank you lovely people for your interest in my little story here. Don't be afraid to review! I love hearing from you all.**

**-Lena**


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